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The Fourteenth Sunday after Pentecost As humans, we are a people of story. In an attempt to make sense of our lives, to place them in the larger context of the world around us, and to make that world comprehensible we construct stories that encompass the events of our lives, the ordinary quotidian events as well as the momentous life altering ones. Not only do we construct stories, we also share them—in daily conversation, with family and friends and co-workers, and even with strangers, and we share them in larger contexts. We share our stories not only to understand our own lives but also so that others can know us and so that we can forge connections with those whose stories are different from ours. Our lives are shaped not only by our individual stories, but also by our collective stories—our histories if you will—of our families but also of our communities, our country, our culture. As we share these multilayered stories we build larger, collective stories that in turn continue to shape our individual stories as they unfold. These stories concern not only our secular lives but also our lives of faith; what, after all, is the bible but a collection of stories, the stories of God’s people working out their lives in relationship, in covenant with that God? In our stories, our narratives, we all have particular events that seem crucial—a time when we made a choice, when we just happened to be in the right place (or the wrong place) at the right time, a time when our lives were shaped or reshaped by things large or small—transformative moments. Some of these events we share with others, some of them are uniquely ours. And some of these events are of such great magnitude that they reshape not only individual lives, but the landscape of a whole society. Such an event took place five years ago, September 11, 2001. People awoke to a brilliantly sunny late summer day, with the usual plans, schedules, hopes and fears, and before the morning was over, the world was irrevocably changed. For some the change meant that loved ones—parents, children, siblings, friends—were gone from their lives. For others it meant that the city in which they lived was marked and scarred forever. For still others it meant that going to work, doing one’s job, resulted in losing one’s life. But for all of us, no matter where we lived, no matter whether we lost family members or friends, no matter what our life circumstances, our lives were altered. Our stories cannot be told without at least an oblique reference to the events of 9-11. It’s impossible to say what our world would be like if 9-11 had not happened, if the planes had finished their journeys, if the towers of the World Trade Center still stood. It’s something we cannot know. What we can know is that our lives have been changed in ways too numerous to count. And perhaps the largest and most lingering effect of 9-11 and all that has transpired since is this: We now live as a people of fear. We fear not just that this tragedy may be repeated. No, our fear is larger; we have become a people that fears what we can see and what we cannot, what we can know and what we can only speculate about, what is real and what others would have us to believe is real. Most of all, I think, on some level we fear humanity and its capacity for evil. Are there things in the world to fear? No doubt there are, and it would be irresponsible to ignore them. But the problem with living as a people of fear is that it shapes the way we see the world and it limits our vision. Living as a people of fear is, I think, akin to living with blinders on, blinders that prevent us from seeing the full range of possibilities in the world around us. When we live as a people of fear, when we allow fear to be the predominate perspective from which we construct our stories, from which we shape our lives, we lose sight of the goodness of God’s creation, of the goodness of humanity, and of the potential of what we might all become if we truly were able to embrace that goodness. And it is here that our readings for today come into play. These readings tell us that we are not called to live as a people of fear, but rather that we are called to be a people of faith, a people of hope. In the passage from Isaiah, we hear the cry of a prophet to a people who have been long in exile and who have begun to lose faith in their God. Isaiah speaks to those who have “a fearful heart” and reminds them that they remain the children of God, the chosen ones; he reminds them, too, that they will be redeemed and he paints a glorious picture of what such redemption will look like: Isaiah 35:5-7 5 Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; 6 then the lame shall leap like a deer, and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy. For waters shall break forth in the wilderness, and streams in the desert; 7 the burning sand shall become a pool, and the thirsty ground springs of water; The gospel reading from Marks speaks to this as well. Here we find Jesus in the midst of his ministry when a man who is both deaf and mute is brought to him by his friends. Just as Jesus has healed others, he takes this man aside and prays “be opened.” The result—the man can both hear and speak—echoes the redemption promised in Isaiah. Both of these stories speak to the life we are promised as children of God and the redemption that is ours through Jesus. Both of these stories speak of the goodness that is inherent in creation and that is there, available to us, waiting for us. And both of these stories point out to us the importance of faith in our lives. In Isaiah, the Israelite people have lost their faith, and so lost sight of the redemption God holds for them. In Mark, it is through the faith of his friends that the deaf man is brought to Jesus to be healed. In both cases, embracing a life of faith seems to be the key to living fully into the goodness of the world into which God has called us to be. It is embracing a life of faith, trusting that God’s love is present for us, that allows us to let go of the fear that is so rampant in the world. And in letting go of the fear, we can open ourselves to a life of hope, the hope that God’s love and the goodness of God’s creation hold for us. In letting go of the fear and holding onto our faith in God, we are better able to act to bring in the Kingdom of God, not only in the life to come, but in the here and now, a kingdom where humanity can live in peace, live without fear, a kingdom where humanity can live into its potential for good rather than its potential for evil. It may seem hopelessly idealistic or naïve to suppose that we can live without fear, that we can live a life of faith and hope in today’s world. But I believe in the uttermost parts of my being that that is the life we are called to by God. Because it is God’s power, God’s love, God’s mercy that ultimately will define how our stories turn out. As we remember the events of September 11 and consider how they have shaped our stories, I pray that we might more fully embrace that love, that power and that goodness that God holds for us, and I pray that we might have the faith that will allow us to let go of our fear and live in hope. AMEN
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